No Rest for the Wicked
by Warrior From the East
Summary: A lone undead has managed to make his way beyond the folds of time, searching for a way to break his curse, the curse of undeath. This undead, although, wants more than to simply break his curse. What else could a walking corpse possibly want? M for swearing
1. Chapter 1

The undead groaned, raising his head. The rough fabric of his hood obscured much of his vision, but the man didn't seem to notice- in fact, it was a surprise he could see at all. The rotted green flesh, reeking of decay, was something seen on only a corpse. Of course, this is what he was… a walking corpse.

He pushed himself up, managed to rise to his feet. He stood steadily for a moment or two before a slight wind weakened his stance and pushed him into a pillar. With a horrible gurgling sound of pain, he gripped his head, trying to remember how he had gotten here. It was as if all his memories were melting away, into nothingness, leaving behind an empty void. That horrible bruise had formed on his left shoulder blade, and the old woman… what had she told him? Only one word came to mind: undead.

Yes… it was coming back now, slowly. The curse. Undeath. And, the cure, somewhere in the land of Drangleic. How did he get here? On this strange gazebo, on the cliff in the freezing air? He had travelled to the gate, and had jumped into the water. Other than that, the undead had no recollection of his previous journeys.

What else had she told him? Yes, there was something else. The only way to fight the curse was to have a clear goal in his mind. Motivation… he honestly felt more motivated to give up than continue on. But he had come this far already, so turning back wasn't an option. What was his goal?

The cure. To break free from this horrible curse.

He stepped forward shakily, testing his leg's strength. They had woken by now, and seemed fit for walking, as long as he didn't try anything like running or jumping. The dry grass crunched loudly under his feet, catching on the ragged cloak on his back. But he seemed to ignore everything around him, for he noticed a flickering light in the distance, at the base of a large tree. Were there others, like him?

His pace quickened as he passed through a narrow passage between two large boulders. A small family of strange rat-like monsters were sleeping to his right, so he made sure to give them a wide berth. The clearing was soon behind him, replaced with a seemingly weak wooden bridge. Of course, he didn't need to worry about falling into the darkness below.

The door in the tree trunk was ajar slightly, and the sound of horrible laughter emanated from inside. The undead cautiously pushed open the door, stepping into the warm room, allowing every detail to catch his attention. There were three old hags sitting near a fire, a much younger woman standing nearby, holding aloft a ladle. She noticed him entering the room but said nothing, allowing him to approach the three women.

"Heh heh heh… what seems to be the ruckus?" the woman sitting near the fire laughed quietly.

"Oh my… your face. The face, of the curse," the second woman said knowingly, lifting her head just enough to stare at the uncomfortable undead.

"An undead has come to play. Heh heh…" the first woman interrupted.

"They all end up here- well, all the ones like you," the third woman interjected.

"You spoke to that kind old dear, didn't you?" the first woman asked, causing the undead to become slightly nervous. The old woman, from before… did she know them?

"You're finished… You'll go hallow," the second woman said, interrupting his thoughts. "Yes, you'll become one of _them_."

"Hallows pray upon men, and feast on their souls," the third woman said grimly, still paying little attention to the undead. Feast on their souls? Was such a thing possible? "This is the fate of the cursed…" All three woman chuckled to themselves, as if laughing at an inside joke.

Waving her hand dismissingly, the second woman finally asked: "What is your name?"

The undead looked at her, clearly unable to answer the question. What was his name? What was he called back home? The memory was weak, but it was there. "My name… is Reman," the undead said in a voice that reminded him of the squeals of dying pigs.

"At least you know your own name!" the second woman laughed once more. "Here's your reward… for sharing." She reached into her large sleeve and pulled out a small oval of intertwined twigs. The effigy glowed slightly, and felt warm to the touch. "It's a human effigy. Take a closer look… who do you think it's supposed to be?" What? He peered into the wooden trinket, and it began to glow slightly. "Think back, deep into your past. Yes… its an effigy of you."

Of him? This wooden effigy was supposed to look like him? No, there must be some mistake. Perhaps she meant the glowing power inside? Suddenly, the effigy shriveled, leaving behind only the glowing power. It grew, enveloping Reman, causing strength to course through his veins. He could feel his rotting wounds closing, his legs becoming stronger underneath him. His skin returned to its original creamy complexion, and his long hair grew back very quickly.

"All people come here for the same reason, Reman. To break the curse," she continued.

"You're no different, I should think…" the third woman said under her breath. "Hmmm… doesn't stand a chance."

"Well, you never know…" the second woman said, and all three of the women chuckled, as if mocking Reman. "Go through the door, and trot along to the kingdom."

"But remember… hold onto your souls. They're all that keep you from going hallow," the first woman warned, finally making eye contact with him. "Oh, I'll fool you no longer. You'll loose your souls… all of them. Over and over again." With that, all three woman laughed aloud, before turning away from Reman, acting as if he didn't exist.

The woman holding the ladel led him to a door on the opposite side of the room, leading to a dark cave. A small, flickering light appeared to his left, and to his surprise, the embers of an abandoned fire still flickered weakly. A poorly constructed sword was stabbed through the center of the fire, but didn't glow red near the flames. Curiously, Reman approached the fire, and as he drew closer, the flames grew. He collapsed next to it, as if all his energy had been sucked out of his body, and his eyes closed, allowing him to drift off into a deep sleep.


	2. Chapter 2: Refuge

Reman groaned, sitting up slowly. How long had he been asleep? Why had he fallen asleep in the first place? What the hell did that fire do to him? Bah- he didn't have time to ask why; he didn't have time to ask questions at all. His memory was melting away. It was as if he could feel his mind emptying of the thoughts he once cherished. This undeath truly was a curse…

Standing, the undead looked around him. The door to the hag's home, an abandoned cart, and a dead body were the only things in the room, besides that fire. Reman sighed, feeling his rough travelling tunic. This wouldn't offer anything in the way of protection, which he would need against hallows. And he didn't have a weapon of any type, either. "Bollocks…" he muttered, making his way over to the fallen body.

He was wearing a strange set of armor- it was white, primarily made of chainmail. His legs and arms were covered in plate metal, while his head remained uncovered. A spear rested next to him, glowing slightly with what appeared to be lighting. It reminded Reman of the boar hunting spears back home, with the guard preventing the boar from charging into the spear and attacking the wielder. A few arrows were sticking out of his back, but they seemed ancient. How long had this knight been here?

"Sorry about this, chap," Reman muttered, slowly stripping the man of his armor. With one quick tug, the tunic of chain mail slipped off him, followed by the whit cloak. After a minute or two, Reman had removed the white armor from him as well, leaving him in nothing but an under tunic. Out of respect, Reman rolled him under the cart, out of the eye of travelers such as himself. Now came the easy part- suiting up.

Reman had slipped the armor on within a few minutes, making sure each strap was tightly secured, and each plate was guarding his vital regions. He hefted the spear, checking it for any cracks before heading down the path of roots. A large cavern awaited him, lit by sunlight streaming through a huge crack in the ceiling. As he traversed the narrow land bridges, Reman's attention was grabbed by the huge walls of white fog. What could possibly be causing those to appear? So many questions, and he couldn't even begin to find answers to them. If he didn't go hallow, he would surely think himself to death.

The small bridge entered yet another tunnel, this one tipped by a faint light. Slowly but surely, Reman made his way towards that light, tripping over the occasional protruding root. After what seemed like an eternity, sunlight enveloped him, filling him with energy. Perhaps now he could find some answers- his eyes had caught sight of a small village ahead of him, and where there was a village there was sure to be people.

Reman quickened his pace, using the spear as a walking stick. His body still felt a bit damaged, even though it had been restored from its rotting state. Ah, there was one of those blasted fires! A woman adorned in an emerald green cloak stood nearby, gazing out over the ocean. The sunlight reflected off of it brilliantly, calming the undead slightly.

"Um, excuse me miss. You wouldn't happen to know where I could find a cure for a curse, would you?" Reman asked awkwardly. What kind of question was that? Granted, it had been a while since he'd had a proper conversation, but still… The woman looked at him, her eyes inquisitive and fierce. She was beautiful- her face looked young, and yet her eyes seemed to emanate age and wisdom. And maybe… sadness.

"Are you… the next monarch?" she asked slowly. "Or merely a pawn of fate?"

"A monarch means king, right?" he asked, wincing at his own idiocy. Hey, when your memories are fading away, you get a free pass on forgetting what words mean.

"Bearer of the curse," she said, ignoring him. "I will remain by your side, till this frail hope shatters."

"Wait, how did you-"

"Take this with you. May it ease your journey," she interrupted, holding out a green flask filled with a strange orange liquid. "Go on, and seek the king. He who made Drangleic what it once was; he who peered at the essence of the Soul. King Vendrick…"

Going after kings now? What was it going to take to get this cure? Perhaps the king knows what could cure him? "Could you at least tell me your name?"

"I have no need for a name… I am simply the herald of the next monarch."

"Alright then. I'll call you the Emerald Herald then, since your cloak is colored like an emerald."

The Emerald Herald smiled slightly, turning back to the water. "Do as you wish, Bearer of the Curse."

Reman smiled happily. He had found at least one… acquaintance. Granted, he didn't know her name, but she wasn't an enemy. And she had given him his motivation. He needed to find the king. King Vendrick had the cure, and if Reman wanted it, he would most likely have to fight his way there.


End file.
